


Exit wounds

by NimmMichMit



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, canon divergence (sort of)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:25:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2603468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimmMichMit/pseuds/NimmMichMit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Exit wounds are always bigger, more destructive. For a bullet, it's relatively easy to get in, but getting out... not so much, and it has to push and cut and tear much harder to come out."</p><p>What is a man to do when he's caught between his own darkness and a blacked out world, and he's desperate to find a way out? Push, push, push harder, push until something gives. Until the light comes flooding in, even if it kills you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been sitting around, finished, in my computer for god knows how long (by the time I had it finished, Connor hadn't made an appearance yet). I have in turns hated it and loved it and hated it again, until it got to a point where I thought 'whatever, I'm just going to post it and see what happens.'
> 
> This story is a retelling of the first episodes of season 2, and by retelling I mean I took some major events and characters and kept them, and twisted and changed everything else. Most of all, this story is a journey, a journey of a man that fascinates me (and doesn't it kill me that he's nothing but a character) because he's painted in so many shades of grey, and a girl, whose most interesting aspect, in my opinion, was her uncanny ability to forgive. 
> 
> Title taken from the song Exit wounds, by Placebo, which I was listening to when I was struck by inspiration.

> _"One more thing before we start the final face-off:_   
> _I will be the one to watch you fall._   
> _So I came down to crash and burn your beggar's banquet._   
> _Someone call the ambulance, there's gonna be an accident." Infra Red - Placebo_

She'd left after the nukes had fallen. Uncle Miles had tried to stop her, but she had been resolved. Everything seemed to have fallen into place, oddly enough, and a sort of stillness had settled where there used to be hectic plans and missions. Of course, nothing was fixed, though she wasn't expecting to accomplish anything by leaving. She just needed to keep moving, to keep her mind occupied so that she wouldn't be forced to dwell on the dark thoughts that plagued her mind.

It meant months of aimless walking, wandering from one site to the next, one bed to the next as she collected lovers the way one collects stamps. Whatever it took to stop herself from dreaming. And then she met him. A bartender just like the next one. She'd flirted shamelessly with him, and he'd responded in kind, just like she'd expected him to. They'd fucked in a back room, dirty and grubby and all mindless lust. She wouldn't have remembered his face the following morning, but he had caught her attention with one single name: Monroe.

"Do you know where he is now?" she asked, as the man prepared them breakfast. She picked her shirt carelessly, trying her best to seem nonchalant, downplaying her interest as just a soldier wanting to pay some respect to her General, but in reality every nerve in her body was alight, her senses completely tuned in on his every move, every word. She hadn't felt so aware of her surroundings since she stared down Strausser's gun.

"I saw him a couple weeks ago, in New Vegas, fistfighting in a whorehouse. You know, he didn't look like himself anymore," the bartender answered, as he placed two fried eggs on a plate. Charlie smiled at him as she walked closer, putting on her shirt.

"Didn't he?" she questioned, sitting down on a bar stool, alike the ones he kept in his bar. The kitchen was separated from the rest of the room by a counter, and that's where he'd placed their breakfast.

He sat down on the other side, smiling at her. "No, he looked like hell warmed over, pretty messed up," he responded. Charlie really wanted to ask more, but it didn't seem safe to do so. Eating breakfast and idly chit-chatting was a safer route.

After they ate, she stood up and went over to a chair to retrieve her pants and boots. He watched her put her clothes back on. "Aren't you staying for a little longer?" The bartender said, standing up and walking behind her to wrap his arms around her.

"I have things to do," she simply responded, disengaging herself.

***

That's how she ended up in a town that seemed a carnival gone sinful, walking through streets full of sweaty, drunk men, smelly tents and wooden booths, and scantily dressed women who offered her things she daren't think about, noise and smoke filling the atmosphere.

"Here, kitty kitty," a wasted man beckoned her. He was standing outside what seemed a bar tent, barely keeping his balance. She neared him. He was disgusting, and reeked of urine and booze, but he probably knew which whorehouse the bartender had meant.

"I need to find a place," she stated, standing as far as she could from the man.

"'Tis in between my legs," he drawled, leering at her.

"Maybe later," she forced herself to say. He laughed. "It's a brothel, they do fist-fighting in there."

Unsurprisingly, the man knew which place she meant, and he pointed in the right direction after she gave him coin for a drink. She found it beside a run down house. The place was a tent, really, not much of a place. It was brimming with people, though, buzzing alive, definitely a show going on tonight. It was too good an opportunity to let it pass. 

Inside, the noise was deafening. People were cheering someone, and over the crowd's screams, the sound of fists meeting skin, cracking bones and pained grunts. She went closer, and sure enough, there he was.

He was fighting. No, he was winning; the other fighter never stood a chance against his fast reflexes and accurate punches. Monroe was barechested and sweat slicked his body. He looked more disheveled than she'd ever seen him; there was a mess of burned skin where his tattoo had been, his face had a couple bruises, and blood was dripping from his mouth, but there was no mistaking him.

He looked up from his contender, and Charlie was shocked to see how haunted and dead his eyes looked. The man roughly wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, the gesture sending a jolt down Charlie's spine.

"You like fights?" a man said, saving her from an uncomfortable train of thought. Charlie turned around, a tight smile on her face. It was a young man, shorter than her -which made him rather short-, a face she did not recognize. "Who wants to know?" she almost purred, although she was staring down at the man in a no-nonsense way.

The man squirmed under her gaze, but he pressed on, "You like fights, don't you? I see you're quite enjoying this."

"I like him," she replied, nodding her head towards Monroe, who had finished with the fighter and was now retrieving his prize.

"Jimmy? Yeah, he's a good one."

She glanced at Monroe for a second. He now had a whisky bottle in one hand and a hooker in the other, but his eyes were as dead as before. "Jimmy, huh?"

The short man nodded, saying, "Jimmy King, from somewhere back East, I think. He's been here a couple weeks and he never loses a fight," he paused to take a good look at her. "Listen, pet, I'm the one who runs the bets here."

Charlie's jaw tensed at the name, but she bit the nasty remark that was struggling to get out of her mouth. It wasn't the right moment. Instead, she showed him a bright smile, and brought out a sachet. The guy greedily extended his hand, and she let a couple diamonds fall onto it.

"Oh, no, not bets tonight. He's not fighting again this night," he replied, although happy to see that the girl was eager.

"This is not a bet," Charlie replied, giving the man a knowing look.

Realization dawned on the man, and a smirk appeared on his face as he pocketed the diamonds. "Let me see what I can do for you." The girl smiled at him, too widely for it to be sincere.

***

A knock on the trailer's door shook Monroe out of his reverie. He'd been busy staring at the place where his tattoo used to be and drinking his weight in whisky.

"Ya?" he replied. The door opened without further questioning.

"Jimmy, hey!"

Monroe looked up from the torn up sofa where he was resting. "Get the hell out of here, Rob," he grumbled, and took a swig from his whisky bottle, returning to his task of getting drunk while reminiscing better times.

"You want to listen to me."

"I don't want to listen to your business or whatever, I want to get drunk and pass out," he stated, his voice denoting that he was well on his way to accomplishing his intentions, too.

Rob scoffed, but he wasn't deterred. "Listen," he insisted, moving closer to the man. "There's a girl out there, and she is really adamant on seeing you."

That made Monroe snort. Girls were always throwing themselves at him, although he didn't find any pleasure in them anymore. Just relief from built up tension. He didn't really know what lured them in, he wasn't even trying. Maybe it was that, precisely. "I don't want to see her."

"I have to insist. You're going to want to see this one. Come on, Jimmy, you can get wasted with her." While he said this, Rob took a good look at the trailer interior where Monroe lived. It was a mess, barely lit, dirty clothes and empty bottles everywhere, and a heap of blankets and old clothes serving as bed. He picked a shirt that was lying around, sniffed it and, deeming it decent enough, he threw it at Monroe, who grunted a swear word, but put the shirt on, nevertheless.

"This has holes," he said, inspecting the shirt, although to be honest he couldn't care less about the way he looked.

Rob took a good look at the shirt, and then answered, "well, holes beat blood stains. Come on, she is waiting for you at Sheila's bar."

***

It wasn't a long walk, and the night was pretty. Maybe it was the alcohol in his veins, but he actually felt eager to meet the girl this time, if only for the curiosity that was eating away at him. What would have made Rob so adamant on getting him to see her? Had she actually paid him?

The thought amused him. A girl paying to see him. From president to manwhore, that was some fall from grace. He took a drag from the bottle he was carrying, no longer grimacing at the taste. See? He'd really fallen from grace if he was getting used to cheap, nasty liquor, instead of his beloved single malts. A sigh escaped him, and he looked up; the bar tent was a couple steps away. He didn't get to enter it, though, as a scream coming from the woods nearby called his attention. Another fight was probably not a good idea, definitely not in his state of drunkness, but he was past the point of caring. His feet took him there before he could even think twice about his actions.

Although it was dark, he could make out two people, mostly through the sounds they made, a man clearly overpowering a girl. She was whimpering now, but it sounded like she was a bit out of it. A defenseless girl. The gentleman in him wanted to scream and bite.

"Hey, leave the girl," he slurred at the figure that was crouching over the lithe female shape. "Either that or share," he added, although he wasn't all that interested in fucking the girl as he was in getting the man's guard down.

A snicker was heard, and he took it as an invitation to come closer. His hands twitched in anticipation, blood already pumping fast through his veins. He saw the man first; a fat man, strong but slow, he assessed; he could take him. And then he saw those eyes.

Light blue eyes, scared but defiant. He'd seen those eyes before, staring down the barrel of a gun.

Anger coursed through him like a lightning, and in blind rage he charged, never seeing the blade that the man carried. He wouldn't have cared anyway. His fist made contact with the man's gut, who groaned, but stood his ground and retaliated by slashing at him with a small but sharp knife. It cut a shallow gash on his collarbone. A little bit higher and it would have been his neck.

"Fuck," he swore as he rose a hand to touch the new wound, realizing he was much too drunk, otherwise he would have seen the weapon. But he could still see Charlie's eyes stuck on his every move, and he could've sworn he heard a faint whimper, and he couldn't let the bastard have her, not even for a second. He sobered up a little, and remembering how to be inventive, he got over the wound and smashed his bottle against a tree. There, now he had a weapon too.

From then on it was all a blur to him as he let his experienced body take over. He blocked hits and cracked bones with the sheer force of his anger, as he felt two eyes burning on his body, and he was so violent that soon he had the man backing away into a tree, trapped there, and then, in one particularly dizzying moment, he felt soft flesh giving in to the broken glass, warm blood pouring over his hand as the man gasped in pain and surprise. Thrilled, he kept pushing, until he knew the glass was deep enough to be lethal. Until even his fist was deep inside the man's gut, warm and slippery.

The man had his eyes wide open, and he had dropped his knife to grasp Monroe's wrist, as if forcing him to pull away would somehow fix the wound, as though he could keep his blood inside by covering the hole. His grasp, however, was getting weaker and weaker, and could do nothing against the raw fury that consumed Monroe. The man made choked sounds, the only thing that stopped him from collapsing being his killer.

Monroe would have stayed there, enjoying the kill, but Charlie was still on the ground, and it hit him that she might be really hurt. He let the man fall to the ground with a dull thud and turned to look for Charlie. He felt dazed as he approached her. Why was she even there? Where was Miles? Definitely not around, he wouldn't have allowed this.

"Charlotte?"

"Get away from me," she spit, but her voice was weak. He walked close to her and inspected her body thoroughly, looking for wounds. She tried to push him away, but she was no match to Monroe, who felt relieved that he could see no major bloodloss. The joy was short-lived, though, as she was rapidly losing consciousness.

"Charlotte, hey! Hey, stay with me, hey!" he babbled as he tapped her cheek and shook her body, but she couldn't listen to him anymore. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos on last chapter, and also those who read it and left without a trace, this was made to be read, regardless of whether I get feedback on it or not. Happy reading, reader!

 

> "Jesus looking down on me,  
>  I'm prepared for one big silence.  
>  [...]Theories of conspiracy,  
>  the whole world wants my disappearance.  
>  I'll go fighting nail and teeth,  
>  you've never seen such perseverance.  
>  Gonna make you scared of me." Haemoglobin - Placebo

When Charlie's eyes opened again, she wasn't in the woods anymore, but a dimly lit, messy poor excuse of a bedroom, lying down on what seemed a heap of fabric serving as a bed. Her head ached, but she was relieved that she'd somehow managed to get rescued. However, her relief didn't last long, as she soon saw Monroe sitting opposite from her. Ignoring her pain, she reached for her knife. It wasn't where it should have been.

'Damn it.'

"I took it," Monroe said. He was sitting on the floor right next to her, watching her intently. She glared at him, silent. "I knew that would be your first reaction. Good evening to you too, by the way." Despite his words, a soft smile was playing at the corners of his mouth. "A thank you would be nice, you know."

Charlie scoffed. Of course, he had to say that again. "Whatever. I don't need your help."

"That was pretty obvious."

The girl flushed. It was the second time he had saved her, and she still didn't know why he was so hellbent on keeping her alive. It didn't matter anyway. Saving her didn't fix anything, and he was still the motherfucker who'd ripped her family apart. "You probably did it for yourself, anyway. I'd bet you enjoyed the kill, you twisted fucker," she quipped.

Monroe nodded calmly, taking much pleasure in her furious face when he didn't react the way she'd expected. "So, it was you that wanted to see me, huh?" he said, changing topic. "Here I am."

"Where are we?"

"My trailer. Look, Charlotte..."

"It's Charlie."

"Charlotte," he insisted. The girl rolled her eyes. "Look, you're really weak right now, guy gave you some pretty nasty drugs yesterday, which are probably still in your system, and I don't wish to see you faint again, so how about you feed, sleep and be on your merry way when you're stronger?"

Charlie breathed out noisily, wanting to refuse, but feeling both tired and hungry. She let herself fall back on the makeshift mattress. It smelled like sweat and lust and something oddly comforting, and she had to fight the disturbing urge to curl up and bury her face in the fabric. "What, and let you be around me when I'm weak so you can act on your fucked up instincts with me?" she snapped, because being angry was easier.

"I've been a complete gentleman while you slept, I don't see a reason to stop that behavior," he said as he stood up and walked to the other side of the trailer.

"Whatever. Psychos were never much into reasoning anyway." She heard him chuckle from wherever he was standing, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like it was playful banter with an old friend. Nothing farther from the truth. He walked back and sat down next to her again.

Then, to her utmost surprise, he offered her a small piece of bread and a plate of beans, along with a glass of water. A humble meal. "I spent most my money on whisky," he explained, as though ashamed that he didn't have anything better to offer.

She accepted the food and water despite herself, too hungry to refuse. It felt like it had been days since she'd last eaten.

"I'll stay, I have unfinished business," she said, after she swallowed her first mouthful.

Monroe nodded. Of course, her reason for being there. He'd thought about it and concluded that she wanted him dead, and this was one hell of an opportunity. She would wait until he was sleeping to slit his throat open. That was something that didn't really bother him. Maybe there really was something wrong with his sanity. "You came here to kill me," he stated.

"I came here to get revenge."

"Same thing. Humor a dead man then, eat, sleep and when you're better, you're free to try whatever you wish." Charlie lifted her head to get a good look at him when he said that. Again, there it was, the haunted look on his eyes that had caught her attention before in the boxing match. It made her curious, despite herself.

As much hatred as she felt for the man, she'd never been able to quell the curiosity that the man inspired her. He was very intriguing, because he refused to be black or white, all shades of grey in him, with very dark spots, and light areas and blurred lines in between them. She couldn't understand how he'd been able to kill so many people, even be involved in her brother's death, yet react with such fury when she was in danger. He didn't even know her. And now, now he was feeding her.

"You're such a good actor," she said when she finished eating, lying back down, although she knew deep in her gut that it was no act. That's what irked her the most. "How could you make yourself look so angry at will, back in the woods?"

Monroe didn't rise to the bait, though. "I'm good at many things, Charlotte."

"Especially at killing," she retorted.

"Especially at that," he agreed.  
  
***

It was the break of dawn when she woke up, freezing. A dim light seeped in through the window, the telltale sign that dawn was close, and the soft sound of rain reached her ears. The candles were out, and her clothes were drenched in cold sweat, probably caused by the drugs that she had been given by that fat sucker. Oh well, he was colder than her now, she thought with twisted pleasure.

Shivering, she sat up, her eyes scanning the room. Monroe was sleeping on the floor, and it annoyed her that he was so careless when she'd made it clear that she would kill him at the first chance she had. Also disturbing was how he'd chosen to sleep on the hard floor instead of forcing her out of his bed. Always insisting on being grey, the bugger.

She felt so cold that she decided to get up and find herself some jacket, anything. She spotted a dark ratty shirt and decided to pick it. Nevermind that it was Monroe's. Her own jacket was not enough and she was freezing. When she wrapped the shirt around her, she was overwhelmed with a scent that was whisky and sweat and man. Monroe's scent. She shivered, and told herself it was the chill. She rubbed her arms to chase away the cold, and took a step back, tripping on something. Her heart skipped a beat as she regained her balance and looked over at Monroe, but he seemed to still be sleeping. Then she looked down to see what she'd stepped on. It was a blanket spread over something, and she would have ignored it, except that something was poking out, and she recognized it. She lifted the blanket and sure enough, there it was. Her crossbow and hunting knife. She looked at the weapons, then at Monroe's sleeping form. 

"The idiot," she mumbled as she knelt down to pick the crossbow. It seemed it was her lucky night after all.

Charlie walked back to Monroe, determined to do what she'd come to do, but when she was in front of him, she couldn't. She'd killed people, and people far less deserving than the man before her, but as he lay there sleeping, she wasn't able to end this once and for all, for some absurd reason that she couldn't quite grasp.

So she stood there, aiming at him with the finger touching the trigger, but never quite pulling it, shaking with both the need to do it and the need to move away. Eventually, she gave into the latter need and went back to bed, bothered and feeling like a coward, but unable to put a bolt through the man's heart. She fell asleep with the soft lull of Monroe's breath and his scent on her nostrils.

***

When she opened her eyes again, Monroe was gone. Onto the floor right next to her was a meager breakfast, and a note that said 'all I could manage to get you. Sorry it's not much. By the way, you look cute in my shirt.', which came signed as 'Bass'. It took her a while to realize that Bass was the short for Sebastian, and even longer to realize that she still had his shirt on. She took it off like it was on fire.

Monroe didn't come for lunch, and neither did he get there for dinner, although a girl appeared in the afternoon with some bread and cheese for her. She had given Charlie a sour look, something that felt a lot like jealousy, and a snappy remark about how she didn't seem so good as to be kept another day. It made Charlie roll her eyes.

For lack of anything better to do, she spent the day honing her knife, eating the food that 'Bass' had left her, and wandering aimlessly through the room, going through the few things the man owned. She only found one thing that was interesting to her, a picture of her parents, uncle Miles and Monroe, all together and smiling, probably from the time when they were all friends, before she was even born.

Charlie spent quite a long time staring at that picture. At her family in it, more precisely. Something stood out to her: her mother was standing a bit too close to Miles, who had his hand clenched in a fist, like trying to hold back really hard. It fed a sneaking suspicion that she'd had for a while now, and she made a mental note to ask her uncle about it next time she saw him. She could probably ask Monroe too, but she refused to give the man the pleasure of normal conversation.

When she was done looking at them, she took her time to examine Monroe, or the Monroe he'd been back then. He'd had pretty eyes, full of life and joy, not the hollow ones he sported now. It made her feel funny, knowing that once he'd been normal, almost made her wonder what happened that turned him the sociopath she'd come to know.

It was bordering on midnight when Monroe came back, bursting in through the door, drunk and bloody and bruised, with the girl from before hanging onto him. However, when he set his blue eyes on Charlie, who was sitting on the sofa, he pushed the girl off him. "Go away," he said to her, never even sending her a glance.

The girl gave him a nasty look that he didn't get to see, his eyes steady on Charlie's, and then she glared at Charlie before stomping away, slamming the door shut behind her. The whole trailer shook with the force of her anger.

"Sorry about that, I didn't think you'd be here," he slurred and went past her. Charlie stood up, following him, although not quite knowing why. He dropped himself carelessly onto the blanket bed, which was layered too thin onto the hard floor. It earned him a pained groan, as his aching body protested against the abuse. Then, with much effort and a couple swear words, he took off his bloody shirt and stretched over the bed, showing several dark bruises already forming on his chest, along with the gash he'd acquired fighting for Charlie.

The girl's body ached in sympathy. He'd obviously lost, or come close to losing. The man last night had told her that he never lost; in that case, she didn't wish to know what state the other fighter had been left in.

"Charlotte, stop pitying me. Ain't my first bruise."

"Ain't your last, if it's up to me," she retaliated, looking away, but when she looked again, he was passed out. She walked to poke his shoulder. He didn't budge. 'Perfect,' she thought, and picked her hunting knife, then walked back decidedly to the man, kneeled behind his back and pressed the blade to his throat. 'I can do it,' she told herself. 'Just one swift movement and...'

"Do it," he said, daring her.

Charlie drew in a sharp breath, surprised. He was awake. She scoffed. Of course he was awake. It would have been obvious to her, if she hadn't been so focused on her own thoughts. His breathing pattern was off, uneven, and his muscles were tense. He'd just faked sleep to escape her antics.

"Do it, Charlotte, don't flinch out like last night," he urged her as he sat up and turned to face her, letting her know that he had been awake last night too. He had been awake, aware of her intentions and yet he'd done nothing to save himself. It made her seethe, his self-deprecation. He didn't have the right, he _didn't._

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she cried. Anger took over her, and she hit him with her closed fist. He lost his balance, she noted, with sick pleasure, even though she'd hit him with her left hand. He barely had time to regain his composture when she was hitting him again. And again. And again. At least she'd dropped the knife.

"Charlotte, stop," he pleaded as she attacked him with all her pent up fury. She hit him where it hurt, wherever she could see welts or bruises, but all he did was recoil and block her blows.

It was unnerving.  
  
"Fight me!" Charlie yelled, as he pushed her off him. She grabbed the knife from the floor, angry enough now that she felt she could do it. "I said fucking fight me!" She raised the knife, ready to stab him, and he finally reacted. He gripped her wrist and punched her midsection. She stumbled backwards, her back meeting the wall, all the while trying to painfully force some air into her lungs. He pinned her hand against the wall with one arm, and used the other forearm to hold her by the neck.

She stared at him defiantly, fearless, although air barely reached her lungs. "I won't fight you, but don't forget who you're talking to, Charlotte," he growled, and dropped her.

She fell to her knees, gasping. The blow had left her breathless, but she knew that he hadn't done any real damage; him, that could have smashed her ribs with one single hit, had carefully avoided them, along with vital areas. It irked her, and as soon as she could breathe halfway properly, she left, needing fresh air to clear her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems that for some reason, the word propperly (which is misspelled, at that) keeps appearing in between paragraphs O.o I tried to remove them all, but I might have missed one or two. Sorry about that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very sorry about the (long) delay. Things have happened. Long story short, someone close to me recently passed away, and after that, well, things have not been alright, and Christmas made it all worse. I apologize, I really have been in no right mind to be thinking about anything other than taking care of myself and my family.

> _"Cast your mind back to the days [...]_   
> _I had so very much to say about my crazy living._   
> _Now that I've stared into the void,_   
> _so many people I've annoyed._   
> _I have to find a better way, a better way of giving." Bright lights - Placebo_

Monroe had sobered up by the time Charlie came back. Sobered, and destroyed several things in the room. She took in the damage that he'd done, and smiled, happy that she'd struck a chord.

"I'm leaving," she said, grabbing her weapons. It was pointless for her to stay when it was obvious she couldn't kill him in cold blood, and in a fight she didn't stand a chance, even when he wasn't trying. She'd only come back to retrieve her things because she wouldn't last a day without weapons in the wild. Or at the very least she didn't want to find out if she could. 

He stared at her long and hard from his spot on the sofa. "Ok, where are we going?"

"Go to hell. You're not coming with me."

"You don't really have a choice. If you leave without me I'll just track you down. You need someone to watch your back."

"You don't get to play the knight in shining armor."

"No, _you_ don't get to play the stubborn girl who gets herself killed," he rebutted, starting to feel exasperated.

"Why does it matter so much to you, whether I die or not?" she demanded.

Monroe sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had a pounding headache, his body didn't feel much better, and the worst of all is he knew he wasn't even close to getting what he deserved. He wasn't ever going to, too, because he refused to be taken down.

"I promised your mother," he eventually answered, weary.

"My mother can go to hell. She doesn't get to have a say in my life anymore, and neither do you. You fucking killed Danny, anyway, goes to show just how much you care."

That particular dagger hit its target dead on. "I gave orders to keep you both unharmed, Charlotte, and I wasn't even there," he said, but it was the poorest excuse in the world, and they both knew.

"I bet that's what you tell yourself, so you can sleep at night."

"You're right," he answered. "And I know I can't make it up, but I have to try."

The girl looked at him incredulously. "Make it up? You can't make it up! And will you quit that 'I'm so sorry' act? It's making me sick. You're just a sociopath trying to manipulate me, saying whatever you need to say to get what you want. God knows what that is."

"Watch your mouth, Charlotte," he growled, standing up. He was starting to feel annoyed, nevermind that he knew he had this coming. "You don't get to talk to me like that."

"Oh, what are you going to do? You're not so high and mighty anymore, Monroe, you're no one, just an empty, cold killer," she taunted, getting closer.

"I still have my hands, they can still hurt you."

Charlie was so close now their chests almost touched, staring at him with those light blue eyes that made one dizzy."Yeah, right," she said, touching her belly. Her skin was bruised, but nothing else. "You call that hurt? I don't think you have it in you to hurt me, really hurt me, whatever twisted reason you have for that."

To further prove her poing, the girl pressed her finger into the angry red gash on his chest, and on instinct, he grabbed her hand to stop her, a little too strongly, but she only changed the angle of her finger, so that it was her nail clawing at the wound. It started bleeding again.

"Come on, hurt me," she urged. "Break my hand, you know you want to."  
  
He pushed her off in frustration with a groan, walked to the wall and punched it, kicked it a few times too, making the floor beneath them shake and threaten to give in, but never touched a single hair on her head. "You are so annoying, girl."

"I'm not a girl."

He gave her a look. It obviously infuriated her, and it only made her disturbinly pretty, her cheeks red with rage, chest rapidly rising and falling, mouth slightly agape. It brought an urge to bite and kiss. Monroe pressed his hand against his eyes, trying to block the thought, definitely not needing that.

"Look," he started, rising his palms to signal a truce. "Just let me get you somewhere safe."

***

She wasn't sure how she'd agreed to it, but now she was walking through the woods with a happier than she'd ever seen Monroe in tow. He was, if nothing else, a sight to behold when he was happy, and if it wasn't for his crazy aggressive megalomania, she would have been content to watch him.

As it was, however, every single time that she saw him, images of Danny's last seconds flashed through her mind, making her remember just how much she hated the man, and making her look away all the time.

It didn't matter. Sebastian seemed glad just by being her guardian dog. Infuriating as that was.

"We should camp here," he said. He was right, it was getting late, and walking at night was asking for trouble. The girl dropped her bag, guessing it was as good a place as any other.

"You know, it's been bothering me," the man said, dropping his own bag and turning to look at her, "why didn't you kill me?"

Good question. Why didn't she? "I don't know. I had all the right reasons, I just couldn't."

"Doesn't mean you don't hate me, though."

"True, that. Also doesn't mean I won't try again."

"Just like Miles," he muttered.

Sebastian set to making the place as comfortable as possible, extending a big piece of fabric over their heads to keep water from falling on them should it rain, and pushing stones away from the area where they'd rest. Meanwhile, Charlie sat on a rock and watched him do all the work in silence, pondering on his question.

"It's not that I couldn't kill in cold blood. It's not the first time I've done it," she started, out of nowhere, as he was lighting a fire. He looked at her with his piercing eyes for a moment, then went back to what he was doing, giving her the time to find the words on her own.

She soon found them.

"It's that you're grey."

"I'm grey," he repeated, confused, albeit rather amused. Of all the things she'd called him over the days, that was the most unusual.

The fire started burning, offering them some much needed light. He sat back and watched the flames dance as they grew.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," she mumbled. "You are grey. You're psycho, and a murderer and paranoid, yet then you go all soft on me, and let me hurt you without hurting me back, and there are times when I almost believe you're sorry, before I remember that you're a great actor."

"I _am_ sorry."

If it hadn't been her family, she would've probably forgiven him, or at least given him the chance to redeem himself, like she did with Miles. For that, he was really jealous. He wished, on some level, that he could get the same treatment.

"All I did, I did to protect people. I did it to protect whatever family I had left. I didn't want any of this to hap-" he was cut midword by an arrow grazing his shoulder. "What the fuck?"

"Hunting guy, we're people, not deer!" Charlie yelled and walked next to Monroe, who had turned in the direction the arrow had come, then loaded her own crossbow when the man grunted in pain as another arrow found his body, this time piercing the flesh on his left shoulder and lodging itself there. Luckily, either the guy was drunk or had terrible aim. The wound was far from fatal.

"Come out, coward, and fight me like a real man!" Monroe yelled, his voice steady despite the wound.

"You killed my father," a teen stated, as he came closer into the lit area.

Charlie snickered with dark humor, despite herself. This was starting to sound familiar. "He might have, who was he?"

"The bastard who drugged you," Monroe answered her. The resemblance was so obvious it was almost painful. He tried to stand as he reached for his sword, ready to get rid of the pest, but her hand on his healthy shoulder stopped him. He looked up at her; she had her crossbow aimed at the kid. Well, he'd let her have it her way.

"Just go, kid. It was all in self-defense, and we don't wish to hurt you."

"Talk for yourself," Sebastian muttered, looking at his wounded shoulder. This would be a pain to get out. Out of nowhere, she pressed her fingers against the fresh wound, making him see stars. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming. She wouldn't let go, and soon he felt himself close to fainting. He grabbed Charlie's wrist, already moving to stand up and fight, when the kid spoke.

"I don't care, you killed my father," the teen said, tensing his bow, but an arrow met his throat before he could shoot.

"Crap," Charlie uttered.


	4. Chapter 4

 

> _"And my behaviour is hard to understand[...]_   
> _but I'm still doing all I can to try and get me some redemption._   
> _And I'm knee deep in sinking sand, crying out for your attention,_   
> _kindly lend a helping hand, for once defy convention,_   
> _and hold on to me." Hold on to me - Placebo_

  
"What the hell was that for?" Monroe questioned while he sat against a tree close to the fire he'd started, trying to break the arrow's feathery end. He felt too dizzy, though.    
  
"Here, let me."  
  
"What? No! You just dug your fingers in the fucking fresh wound and now you want me to let you anywhere near it? Are you fucking crazy?"  
  
"Are you always such a prissy wuss when you take a hit?"  
  
He gave her a dirty look, then shrugged his healthy shoulder in defeat. She moved close to him, kneeling between his legs. Knife in hand, she tore the sleeve off the shirt, and examined the wound. "This is a mess, _you_ are a mess, and you stink," she noted, but she didn't mention that under the sweat and blood she could smell him and it was intoxicating.  
  
"Come on, I'm a sight for sore eyes," he joked, and for a second she could see the man that he once was, the seductive, cocky player. Before life went crazy, and dragged him along. Rolling her eyes, Charlie touched the backside of his shoulder to check that yes, the arrow had pierced right through. Well, at least it spared her the trouble of having to do it herself, avoiding bones and other things she didn't want to think about.  
  
"Brace yourself," she warned, and didn't complain when his fingers reached for her knee. She was still thinking about how she'd managed to stop his killing urge with just a single gesture.  
  
His fingers dug into her skin when she broke the arrow tip, and she lowered one hand to wrap it around his wrist, her thumb caressing his skin comfortingly.  
  
"Just do it," he said, his voice sounding strange, low and breathless.  
  
Charlie looked up, about to say she didn't really care if he was ready or not, but she met steel blue eyes staring intensely at her and the words died in her throat. It made her insides squirm. There was pain in those eyes, just as the time she'd seen him in the boxing match, but then they had been hollow, haunted, and now they looked alive. Burning.  
  
"Charlotte, do it."  
  
The girl shook her head, as though the gesture would shake the thoughts of what that look had meant. "Of course," she mumbled, and grabbed her knife. She needed to cut a wedge in the arrow shaft. "Do we have any gunpowder?" Monroe nodded, pointing at his bag. Charlie stood up and rummaged through the bag, finding a shotgun and several shells, which she gave to Monroe. He carefully dismantled two rounds so she could have access to the gunpowder.  
  
Charlie cut the wedge painstakingly slow, and then poured the gunpowder in it. His chest was rising and falling fast, so she cooed at him comfortingly. A pained groan escaped Monroe's lips as she pushed the arrow in deeper, effectively getting the black powder inside the wound.  
  
"Wish we had some liquor," he said, wistfully, when Charlie grabbed a stick and set it alight on the fire he'd made, but his concerns were lost when he felt the girl's hand grab his own. The pain was excruciating as she burned the wound on the inside and then extracted the arrow, but all he cared about was that, if only for a moment, his sins had been forgotten.  
  
***  
  
Upon waking up, the first thing Charlie noticed was the scent, a familiar stench of sweat and blood laced with another smell, also familiar, and much more pleasant. Through the fog in her sleepy mind, she realized too that each and every limb in her body felt sore and stiff, and that she wasn't lying down, but rather propped up against something, something with a steady heartbeat.  
  
It was that thought that made her open her eyes suddenly, only to find herself looking at a torn shirt with a rather big bloodstain. She tried to move away, but strong arms kept her in place. Her breath quickened, yet one single look up showed her that Monroe was still sleeping.  
  
Charlie breathed in deeply, trying to calm her racing mind. Memories from the previous night came to her as she set eyes on the swollen shoulder of the man.  
  
After she'd taken the arrow out, she'd moved away from him to lie on the ground next to the fire, but she had barely closed her eyes when he started shivering, tremors so strong that they shook his whole body. The night was chilly, and the man had broken into a cold sweat. She'd sat back where she'd been, between his legs, to keep him warm, and that's how she'd fallen asleep.  
  
Making up for one awkward day start.  
  
"Charlotte?" the groggy voice of Bass was heard. "Did I...?"  
  
"No, just- let me go."  
  
"But-"  
  
"Let me go, I said." He let his arms fall limp, and she quickly moved away. "You were cold, you wouldn't let me sleep with your teeth chattering."  
  
Monroe looked at her with still-sleepy eyes, and decided to let that one particular excuse go without questioning.  
  
"You need to clean up, too, you stink," she added. The man nodded and got up, stretching his stiff body. God, did everything hurt. Deciding that he wouldn't be able to take off the shirt, he picked his knife and tore it. It was ruined already anyway, and he could use it to clean up and bandage his shoulder.  
  
He grabbed one of the water flasks they had brought and wet the shirt. He rubbed it over his achy body, getting rid of the dirt and nasty scents. It felt so good, the cold water against his feverish skin, the sensation of getting cleaned. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Charlie covering the dead body of the kid with branches and leaves and all sorts of things.  
  
"You should have let me do that," he said, but she ignored him in favour of leaving, to find a stream where she could clean up, he guessed.  
  
Awkward mornings were always the best.  
  
***  
  
When Charlie came back, Monroe had finished getting clean, dressed up in a black tank top, and the worn, dark long-sleeved shirt that she'd used that first night, with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows. He wore the same dark pants and leather boots, but he'd cleaned them a bit. His blond beard had been trimmed and his skin, now free of crusty blood, showed its golden colour wherever it wasn't bruised.  
  
Now he really was a sight for sore eyes, no joke this time.  
  
"Wow, you clean up good," Charlie said after one good, long stare. "One would even think you're an honest, trustworthy man."  
  
"Well, I'm honest," he replied, picking up his bag and weapons. He'd also cleared the area, removing any sign that they'd been there, and he looked ready to go. "Think of it, I have never lied to you," he told her as he turned to leave.  
  
It was true, Charlie noticed. However much pain he'd caused, however many flaws the man possessed, dishonesty was not one of them. It was with that in mind that she went after him, on their way to the next town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a reference-ish to a movie (two mules for sister Sara - http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0065134/), thumbs up to anyone who can point it out. Funny movie :D


End file.
